So Much Blood by Simon Brett Page B

his lap. If he was upset, it must have been that some girl had slapped his face.’
    â€˜There were a lot of girls?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Do you know if he’d been particularly involved with anyone recently?’
    â€˜We didn’t discuss it. We went our own ways. Listen, Willy was a slob. All right, I’m sorry he died, but he was no great loss.’
    Charles was shocked by her honesty and his face must have betrayed it. Jean laughed. ‘Yes, you’re wondering why I married him. Well, I was only seventeen, I wanted to be a musician and I wanted to get away from my parents. And Willy was different then—it was before he became successful. He was less sure of himself and, as a result, less selfish. We both changed. He became a bastard and I got a lot tougher. In self-defence.’
    There was a slight tremor on the last words, the first sign of human feeling that she had shown. The callous attitude to her husband’s death was a protective shell, distancing her from reality. It was true that she had not loved him, but the killing had affected her. Charles changed his approach slightly. ‘When did you last see him?’
    â€˜Last Friday. I went down to Carlisle to start a tour of folk clubs. Then this happened. I’ll be joining the tour again as soon as I’ve got things sorted out.’
    â€˜And Willy didn’t seem upset when you left?’
    â€˜He was exactly as usual.’
    â€˜And you’ve no idea what he was doing over the weekend?’
    â€˜Screwing some bird probably. Decorating here maybe. Rehearsing his bloody show. I don’t know.’
    The edge was creeping back into her voice. She wanted Charles to leave. She wanted to be on her own. Maybe so that she could break down and cry her heart out. There was not time for many more questions. ‘Why did he get involved in the show in the first place?’
    â€˜Puce split up. Willy had delusions of grandeur—wanted to get it together as an all-round entertainer. Another Tommy Steele. No big impresario offered him a contract, but Derby University offered him a part in their tatty show. I suppose he saw it as a rung on the ladder to stardom .’ She put an infinity of scorn into that word.
    â€˜Sounds unlikely.’
    â€˜Maybe there was some other reason. Look, Mr Paris—’
    â€˜I’m sorry. I’ll go. Can I just ask you again—was there anyone you can think of, however unlikely, who might have profited by your husband’s death?’
    â€˜First let me ask you—why are you so interested in all this? It’s nothing to do with you.’
    â€˜No, you’re right, it’s just . . . I was there . . . I saw it . . .’ He petered out. Tried again. ‘There are people who will feel happier when the facts are known. I mean, there’s so much gossip and speculation and accusation down at Coates Gardens . . .’ As he spoke, he knew it was not true. In fact there had been surprisingly little discussion among the students. Once they had exhausted the inherent drama of the situation, they all seemed quite happy to accept that it was an accident and get back to the more important drama of the shows they were putting on. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t really answer your question.’
    â€˜Hmm. I’ll answer yours. The only person who stood to benefit from Willy’s death was his widow, who would thus get out of an unsatisfactory marriage without the fuss of divorce. In other words, the only person with a motive was me.’ She laughed sharply. ‘Goodbye, Mr Paris.’
    He wandered disconsolately along Meadow Lane and looked back at the house. It was in a better state of repair than the others, walls and chimney repointed, missing slates replaced. And inside, was Jean Mariello as tidy and controlled? Or was she crying? He’d never know. All he did know was that she did not kill her husband. Her talk of motives had just